


Striking Iron with Flint

by iniquiticity



Series: a heart made of wood [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad People Hurting Eachother, Bad People Hurting Eachother Via their Partner, Bad People Hurting Themselves, Biting, Damaged Humans Badly Managing Themselves, Darkfic, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Id Fic, M/M, Mania, Masturbation, No Aftercare, Painplay, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, Seduction, Self-Harm, Self-Medication via Sex, Undernegotiated Kink, Workplace Relationship, self-harm by proxy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 03:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6837667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington is reminded of the game him and his brothers would play, feeding larger and larger items into their campfires, the flames shooting higher and higher, the thing growing until it caught some tree branch and there was a hurry to put it out. Hamilton is a wildfire of a human being, and Washington feeds things into him - dossiers, reports, his particular preferences - to see what the flames can become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Striking Iron with Flint

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [gonfalonier](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gonfalonier/pseuds/gonfalonier), [Poose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose) and [rillrill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill).  
>    
> This is a story about bad people harming themselves and each other, and occasionally themselves by way of each other. Please mind the tags and take care of yourself!
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr at [iniquiticity](http://iniquiticity.tumblr.com), or on twitter at [@picklesnake](https://twitter.com/picklesnake).

**

Knox drops the file on his desk. 

“This is the one?” Washington says, studying the passport photo on top. Long, dark hair. Unprofessional. Not his favorite. Not smiling in the photo. Good. Latino. Better. Worn eyes. Could go either way. A good knot to his tie. Excellent. 

“Nate’s going to give you the same file tomorrow, so I thought I’d beat him to it.” 

Washington flips through the file. _Hamilton, A._ Education: Four years at Columbia, triple-major in public policy, business, and law. Summa Cum Laude. Two years in Afghanistan. MBA from Columbia Business School. Summa Cum Laude. In-office experience: Top regional manager more times than he bothers to read. Top national manager plenty. Supervising twenty associates and 600 accounts. 29 years old.

“This is the one you tried to hire as your assistant and he turned you down,” Washington says. Knox nods. 

“Not prestigious enough. Wants to be an executive VP. You should try. I don’t think a man’s turned you down in years.” 

Knox smirks. Washington rolls his eyes. “You know I don’t mix business with pleasure,” he says, and turns the page on the file. The next page is blank. He looks at it for a moment. Then: “I assume he didn’t appear on the planet with the full Columbia scholarship in his hand.” 

“Foster care,” Knox says. 

“What an American dream boy,” Washington replies, then closes the file. “What are the other candidates?” 

“Interview him first. Then we’ll talk about other candidates.” 

“I don’t even know what he’s competing against.” 

Knox taps the photo. “When have I ever lead you wrong, George?” 

  


** 

The picture does not fully express A. Hamilton, sitting in the chair in his office, completely unbowed. Washington likes him already. Hamilton has a strong handshake, one that doesn’t break under his own. Hamilton is wearing a decent suit for a manager of his pay grade, with a pocket square and cufflinks, and a decent watch at his wrist. Hamilton’s eyes are hard and on a tough kind of fire. The deep bags under his eyes are worse in real life, but somehow they manage to express more accomplishment than exhaustion. 

“Why did you turn down Henry Knox?” Washington asks. 

“I’m not administrative assistant material,” Hamilton says. His voice is impassioned, but calm. There is an undeniable charisma about him. “I could, however, be open to an expansion of my current responsibilities, along with the associated title and pay change.” 

“Mr. Hamilton, most people don’t request things from me,” Washington says. 

“I’m not most people, and you know that, because you’re interviewing me for a position,” Hamilton says, completely self-assured. It would be grating if it didn’t seemed to fit him so well. 

In interviews like this, he likes to have the person’s file on his desk, in plain view. I know everything about you, it says. One of his easy eliminators for interviews is people who glance at their file, as if something about it will give them away. Hamilton hasn’t looked at his once; in fact, he hasn’t looked away from Washington. 

“This is an interview for my executive assistant. If you don’t consider yourself assistant to George Washington material, you can return to your desk.” 

Hamilton’s eyes flicker, but he stays put. There it is. Washington resists the urge to smirk. 

“Do you have a significant other, or children, Mr. Hamilton?” He asks. 

“No, Mr. Washington. Just me.” A flicker. Recent break-up, perhaps? Or a lie through his teeth, maybe. Hard to say. He’s not worried. 

Washington lets the moment stretch. Hamilton doesn’t fidget, though he can sense the energy vibrating off him. Disciplined. Good. 

“It’s quite possible that there’s no one in the company, besides me, who will know more about how things are run, how campaigns are decided, how steps are taken, how the company evolves, how things are going, what the future may look like -- other than this position. In return for expansive knowledge regarding the company’s workings, contacts for every personal and professional desire you can imagine, security clearance to anywhere in the company, real or virtual, and the power to make wide-sweeping decisions, I expect from this position a minimum 60-hour workweek, eighteen hour minimum on call, and blood and sweat of the same intensity I’m known for. Of course, full benefits, a significant raise, generous time off with my approval, with the opportunity for other perks.” 

Hamilton nods. He does not shrink. He does not seem crushed or overwhelmed by the presented responsibilities. In fact - he’s leaning forward a little. Hungry. Ambitious. Washington likes it. 

“I would expect the most qualified person for this position to be a remarkable writer, an extraordinary and voracious reader, a meticulous time-keeper and schedule-maker, and a perfect social butterfly, with a head for names and faces and pointless details about men’s families to flatter them into writing us checks. Additionally, the most qualified person for this position would be able to be at my side at a moment’s notice, at any time, at any place - including from or to vacation, if required - and would require only the quickest of briefings to be able to form a comprehensive strategy that would result in the best possible resolution for the company. I don’t exaggerate when I say that if I had to choose a position for the smartest, quickest-thinking person in the company, I would choose this one.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Washington,” says Hamilton, with a smirk. It’s completely too-forward. Aggressive. 

“Is it worth my time to hear about you, Mr. Hamilton?” Washington asks. 

Hamilton makes a play at studying his fingernails. If they aren’t manicured, they’re well taken care of. That’s a good sign. “Would your potential executive assistant decide that?” 

“Yes,” Washington says, “One of the duties of this position would be to vet anyone who wanted to meet me, brief me on their goals, as well as what way they’d likely try to achieve those goals, what are the benefits and detriments of this person to the company, and how long I have to talk with them.” 

“Well,” Hamilton says, “I am more than worth your time. My goal is to show you that I am the most capable employee in this company, although I think you already know, because my accolades are on your desk.” 

“Tell me about yourself,” Washington says, although at this point he isn’t sure what Hamilton could say that would have him not offered the position. Hamilton opens his mouth to speak. He has a very nice mouth, Washington thinks. 

  


** 

Hamilton is as advertised. He puts in the long hours without complaint, studying every facet of the company, and providing an opinion. He keeps the most meticulous address book Washington has ever had. He books flights that aren’t delayed, in airports with longues. He has a particularly barbed way of telling people who aren’t worthy of Washington’s time just that. He has a report and a memory of every man or woman they talk to. 

Hamilton quickly learns how he likes his steak, and his eggs, and his favorite wines; he learns that he prefers to sit aisle instead of window, and that he devours Clive Clussler novels and always has the new one on his desk; he learns what magazines he likes to read, and gets a subscription both to his office and his apartment. He learns the colors Washington likes (green, silver, black, dark blue, dark red), and the colors Washington doesn’t like (pastels). He gets on a first-name basis with the tailor, the dry-cleaner and the valets at the hotels. He consumes one piece of schedule minutiae after another. Hires for him a personal shopper, a flamboyant French expat with an incredible eye for design. Finds the perfect person to clean his various apartments in different cities. 

“I rescheduled your flight from Phoenix to LaGuardia to land at JFK instead.” Hamilton says. (He likes JFK better than LaGuardia). “But the flight lands three hours later, so I already spoke to Mr. Richards and rescheduled your appointment with his man from Tuesday to Wednesday, same time, same location.” 

“What do you know about Richards?” Washington asks, with a growl. 

“Only that he has a large number of friends half your age with pretty eyes and long legs,” Hamilton replies, smirking.

It’s no use being angry, not when Hamilton already knows. And this is just another thing about him, after all - his preference for what he likes to think of as _gentlemen._ After all, despite Hamilton’s ability to never stop talking, he somehow manages an incredible amount of discretion. 

“Take your pick as well, if you want,” he says, affecting apathy. 

“Paying money takes all the fun out of it,” Hamilton says, “As you know, sir, I am connoisseur. And the whole process revs my engine, even if at the end I always hope someone comes on my face.” 

“Crude,” Washington says. Hamilton shrugs. 

_Connoisseur_ is a nice word for it, like Washington uses _gentlemen_. Hamilton appears, usually, with at least one splotched hickey sneaking over the collar of his shirt. Sometimes Hamilton has a peculiar limp. But these things - or people - do not interfere with his job, and so Washington puts them out of his mind, except for when he has a moment to himself. He might like to make that hickey, only, he does not mix business with pleasure. But the thought of it - his overwhelming whirlwind of an assistant, young and limber beneath him - is his favorite secret to keep, and the secret that has him groaning with pleasure into his handkerchief. 

He suspects that Hamilton would not be opposed, if the extended contact the man makes with his hand - no wedding band - means something. If the way Hamilton looks at him from under his long, dark lashes means something. Once, the man even dipped a finger under the waistband of his slacks, with the pretense of fixing a wrinkle in his shirt. If nothing else, Hamilton is deliciously determined in everything he does, manic in a way that Washington would worry about, if it was worth it. 

Hamilton’s frenzy is clearly unhealthy and the perfect quality for the job. Washington is reminded of the game him and his brothers would play, feeding larger and larger items into their campfires, the flames shooting higher and higher, the thing growing until it caught some tree branch and there was a hurry to put it out. Hamilton is a wildfire of a human being, and Washington feeds things into him - dossiers, reports, his particular preferences - to see what the flames can become. And sometimes Hamilton catches, appearing at their morning meeting in yesterday’s suit, clearly unshaven, teeth unbrushed, fresh bruises along his neck, and Washington has to glare at him and order him to come back sensibly.

He’s going to wring every spark out of this man until there’s nothing left. 

At least whatever charred husk Hamilton seems intent on leaving behind will have been backstage at every concert imaginable, up-close with professional athletes, and a nice six-figure pension. 

  


** 

Hamilton has already ripped a new asshole for the staff of the Ritz Carlton Hong Kong, first in English, and then in fluent Mandarin, but that doesn’t make their originally booked hotel rooms available. Instead they’re in a top-luxury room, carpeted and expansive, with an incredible view and one king-sized bed. Hamilton can sleep on the cot, he figures. He admires the view for approximately five minutes before opening his laptop and resuming what he was working on on the plane; the wifi was out in the air for a while, and there are still some parts of his presentation that aren’t finished. Hamilton hangs up their suits and spreads their toiletries in the bathroom and orders room service for them. Then, he opens his own laptop, puts on his headphones, and starts typing away as well. Washington puts him out of mind and focuses instead on his work. 

A yawn escapes him as he finishes the end of the presentation. He’ll look it over in the morning, but now he won’t notice any typos at this point in the evening. He runs his hand over his face, and looks over - no Hamilton, but the bathroom light is on. He really shouldn’t be walking around in only his boxers, so he puts on his gym shorts and an undershirt, fuddling with minute details of the presentation until the bathroom is available. 

He hears the door open and Hamilton is standing there with the towel wrapped around his waist. The man clearly indulged in his favorite vice before they left - bites are peppered down his chest and there are bruises along his shoulders. Washington trains himself not to stare, settles the heat at his stomach. 

“Put some clothes on,” he says, rolling his eyes and walking past him. Hamilton doesn’t let him; his hand darts out, wraps around his wrist. Hamilton steps into his space, presses his hips against his thigh. There’s no mystery for either of them. 

“Why?” Hamilton says, smirking up at him. “I know I’m your type. Half your age, pretty face, skinny. I don’t even mind if you knock me around a little. Maybe I’m into it.”

Washington yanks his arm out of the man’s grip. “Because we have a 7am presentation and you being jetlagged is bad enough without adding in fucked out. You don’t know I don’t like it when you let your dick get in the way of work.” 

“When was the last time I let my dick get in the way of work?” Hamilton asks, scowling. “You finished the presentation, I finished my emails. Orgasms are good for jetlag.” 

“Put some clothes on and call room service to get you a cot,” Washington says, and then closes the bathroom door behind him. He has a feeling that that order is not going to be obeyed. He studies himself in the mirror. He looks like the kind of man who does not mix business and pleasure, especially given Hamilton’s tendency for mania. Hamilton is just the type to beg for him, and then run to someone and complain about their coupling. He will call for the cot himself, if he has to. He brushes his teeth and takes a piss and takes a deep breath, steadying himself. 

Hamilton is laying on the bed, legs spread, with two fingers in his ass. 

“Hello, sir,” his assistant says, breathlessly, and then spreads his fingers, and Washington’s throat goes terribly dry, and his cock stirs to life, because his body is a traitorous thing. It requires food and sleep and to stop working, which is bad enough - this is worst. Betrayal of the highest order. 

“I’m calling you a cot,” Washington manages, trying to fight the strained edge of his voice. He turns around to the hotel phone. Hamilton moans the prettiest moan Washington has ever heard. 

He studies the phone to get back his concentration. Room service. 

“Sir,” Hamilton says, behind him, and moans again, “I’m thinking of you - right now--” 

He picks up the phone. The numbers swim in front of his eyes.

“I know you’re packing, and there aren’t fucking words for how badly I want your cock in my ass. You don’t even have to fuck me if you don’t want, just sit in your chair and I’ll suck you off.”

 _Room service, George Washington_ , he thinks, sternly, and then Hamilton’s arms are wrapping around him, his hot, bare chest against his back, and lube-slick fingers are sliding into his gym shorts and against his thighs. 

“I’m way better than one of your little whores. You know I know you better.” 

“Hamilton,” he says, and his voice is too breathy for his liking. Do not mix, he thinks, furiously, grabbing Hamilton’s hands and pulling them out of his shorts. The worst part is that Hamilton isn’t wrong, has always been built the way Washington buys his evenings - lean in a way that he could hold down easy and crush and take. He might be able to get both the man’s wrists in one hand. He could--

 _No._

He slides away from that grip, from the other man, standing next to the bathroom door and trying to catch his breath. Trying to suppress the clear desire in his shorts. Do not mix. You are just another conquest for your ultra-productive, ultra-destructive personal assistant. 

He hears the sound of a body hitting the bed, then --

“Right there, sir,” Hamilton moans, and there’s the sound of slick skin on skin. If he looks, his will will break. He stands there and closes his eyes, trying to stop that voice from skittering over him like lightening. “Please, god, fuck me harder.” 

“Hamilton, stop masturbating and put your clothes on,” he says to the wall. 

“You’re getting so deep inside of me - fuck, you’re so big, you’re so thick, you’re so good -” 

“ _Alexander,_ for God’s sake --” 

“God, yes, use that voice on me--” 

He turns around to yell, but -- 

Hamilton is still laying on the bed, now with three fingers in his ass and his other hand fisted around his cock, jerking himself furiously. Washington can’t stand it, this incredible sight laid out in front of him, the man as hot and limber and perfect as he’s always imagined. His thighs flex with pleasure, the slim calves, the bitten chest, narrow and underfed, and that neck, and that mouth - he’s always liked that mouth.

He’s always wanted that mouth. 

_He’s always wanted that mouth._

“Take your hand off your cock and come here,” he growls. Hamilton forces himself to open his eyes and look at Washington, to size him up in the way he sizes up their various guests and attendees. 

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton says, and he slides off the bed, and Washington is aching, the part of him that says _don’t mix_ being very quickly drowned out by the chorus of many other parts of him - the various fantasies he'd had of this body, which is so perfectly displayed for him, and all the new options that suddenly seem very open, and all the physical desire that has caught like a gas stove. Like a fire. Hamilton’s fire caught him, and now he’s alight and he can’t stop burning. Hamilton stands there and only then does Washington allow his gaze to drop, to catch on the bites and bruises on Hamilton’s thighs, and those reddened marks that looks like welts, and -- 

\-- he is making a very bad decision. He is doing something that will end him. He is taking some terrible step into some catastrophic beyond, a point of no return, throwing himself headlong into some terrible alternate universe -- 

\-- but how can this end badly, after all? Who would possibly stand with someone like this, someone like Hamilton, over him, if something were to happen? With his profits, he’s nigh-untouchable; he knows that, everyone knows that. And he doesn’t even have to pay Hamilton, or pays him enough, as is. He is an owning type, in business and in pleasure. Hamilton is very clearly the type to be owned. He does sort of already own the other man, given the pressure he puts his assistant under. 

Yes. It makes perfect sense. Especially when one thinks about it with their heart pounding

The longer he looks, the smaller the objecting voice becomes, until it is completely consumed by the want pulsing in his stomach. 

“You know I’ll do anything for you, sir,” Hamilton veritably purrs, because he will. Washington has asked for books that aren’t out yet, for six-figure bottles of wine, for hundred-page reports the day before, for dry-cleaning done in an hour. Hamilton has never failed to get him what he wants. He thinks about what he wants. 

As he often does, Hamilton loses his temper, and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“This isn’t a tough decision, sir,” he says, and it’s the same voice he uses for when he’s advising him on contracts, or hiring, or the right PR pitch, “Or is this part of your thing, that you’re going to make me stand here and shiver for a couple of hours before you raw me?” 

“Shut up, I’m thinking,” he replies, because that’s the designated response to Hamilton pressuring him for an answer. 

“You should shut me up,” Hamilton retorts, because god forbid he actually listens to what Washington says. Hamilton’s eyes have fixated on his half-hard cock, visible in his shorts, and then he adds, after a considering beat, “Daddy.” 

Washington snorts. It’s almost enough for the part of him telling him he should book another hotel room to actually have a considering vote in what he’s going to do next. “You’ve known me for how long, and you’ve pegged me for a ‘Daddy’ type?” 

“Older man, likes younger men, closet gay, super toppy, no kids?” Hamilton shrugs, and, apparently bored by presenting himself, leans back against the edge of the bed, smearing lube on the comforter. He fists his cock idly. “Worth a shot.” 

“Would you really call me daddy?” He asks, and he finally takes his shirt off, and Hamilton’s eyes track the planes of his stomach. 

“Sir,” Hamilton’s voice is annoyed. “I would let you piss on me if it meant you’d fuck me after.” 

“Disgusting.” 

His assistant shrugs, unperturbed. “Well, it’s a relief to know I don’t have to. Be pissed on, or call you daddy.” But then he contorts his face to something weak, something vulnerable, something fragile, something soft. Hamilton is a lot of things, not all of them good, but _soft_ is not one of them. “Come on, daddy,” he says, in a simpering little voice to match his expression, “I need your big, hard, thick cock in my ass. Want your come dripping down my legs.” 

Washington rolls his eyes, because that’s the best way to disguise the fact that the mental image of his come rolling down Hamilton’s thighs flashes at the front of his mind and pours lava down his spine. Hamilton laughs, because he can see right through him. 

“Come here,” he says. Hamilton walks back over to him, hand still wrapped around his dick. “For someone who wants to be fucked so bad, you’re being an awful brat about it.” First, he pushes that hand away, letting it hang. Then, he touches the man, traces a finger down his bites, thumbs the line of his neck, counts his ribs. Pinches his nipple, and Hamilton makes a short little noise in the back of his throat, and it’s music. 

“You like it when I’m an awful brat,” Hamilton says, his voice breathy. “You know they call me your chihuahua. Little attack dog. It’s even racist. Perfect. ” 

“They can call you whatever they want,” Washington says, dismissively, both hands playing with Hamilton’s nipples now, pinching and teasing, tugging a little, nails scraping over the skin. Hamilton’s eyes flutter shut, and he moans, taking another step into Washington’s space again. This time, they’re both hard. “Jealousy makes people ugly. We have you. I have you.”

“You know I’m just interested in always advancing the interests of the company,” Hamilton murmurs. 

He stops the torture, and Hamilton looks at him through half-open eyes, through dark eyelashes, his lips pressed together in a pout. Hamilton is about to say something, probably complain, but he presses a finger to those sweet, wonderful lips which he has wanted for a very long time. To his surprise, this shuts his assistant up. Washington traces his mouth; Hamilton opens it, and it’s wet and pink and just as he’s fantasized. 

Hamilton goes down to his knees with only the smallest amount of pressure on his shoulder; his assistant makes a warm, pleasured noise at the touch, and his hands come up, tracing Washington’s thighs through the gym shorts. Washington peels the shorts off, sets them aside, and Hamilton’s eyes are set firmly on his cock, and he’s licking his lips, the sound of his breath loud in the quiet room. 

“Well?” Washington says, sliding a hand through Hamilton’s hair - he’s never liked the long hair, unprofessional - but now he thinks he might come around to it. He gives it a tug and Hamilton groans, then dives in with his characteristic frenzy. 

The problem seems to be that Hamilton is much too capable at sucking cock. His mouth is much too hot and much too wet, and he’s all familiar eagerness that Washington maybe thought in abstract would be like this, but never considered it in concept. As he always does, Hamilton has thrown his mouth at the problem with absolutely no regard for the consideration he may need to come (heh) out the other side. He doesn’t hold back, doesn’t work himself up to it - never does , never has. What Hamilton’s blowjob is is one moment he’s thinking maybe he should turn the AC down, and the next moment Hamilton’s choking himself with his cock, fighting the urge to gag because he’s not the type of guy to be held back by some pointless physical reflex. Hamilton’s fingers are digging into his thighs, and he’s wet and sloppy about it, as if this is the last dick he’ll ever get to put in his mouth. 

“I bet you’d like it if I fucked your face, wouldn’t you?” He murmurs, and even though there’s definitely a part of him that might like to let go, let Hamilton go to town on him, aggressively solve the problem of his hard-on like he manages to solve anything else. But, he realizes, it’s much too dangerous to let go with this boy. He’s seen Hamilton flip the stakes on plenty of people, and he doesn’t think anything would stop his very energetic assistant from doing the same to him. Calling Hamilton a dog is an understatement in so many ways - he needs to be shackled and collared and chained, not domesticated. Hamilton is a hyena or a crocodile or a bird of prey. He’s about to follow his train of thought, but then Hamilton does something with his tongue, something that distracts him and pours lava into his veins. 

“God, you’re such a little slut,” Washington says, and Hamilton somehow manages to smirk despite his mouth being full. 

“Don’t be uppity with me, boy,” he adds, and Hamilton does that thing again, “Little slut,” he repeats, dark and dismissive, and he gets a good strong handle on that unprofessional dark hair and, as he usually has to do with his overwhelming assistant, takes control. It’s nice to push his cock into that sweet mouth, this lovely thing he’s always dreamed of having. He shouldn’t do it, but it’s much too late now, and he’s going to take advantage of careening over the edge of his own morals, grey as they may be. 

“Put your hands behind your back,” He growls on a particularly deep thrust that feel so good - too good, better than any one of his gentleman has ever felt - and Hamilton does it, giving him completely over. 

It’s the same as the man filling any other of his ridiculous commands. He’s all focus, all aim, his sole goal in life to please his boss, to complete his task - whether it’s a report, some agenda or itinerary, or blowing him. Alexander Hamilton is the same man, through and through. 

And just like all of those times, he’s going to take and use and plunder and pillage until he’s satisfied, until Hamilton is bare bones, all the meat stripped from him. He fucks his moth relentlessly, punishingly, and it feels in-fucking-credible, and Hamilton's good at it, like he’s good at everything. It shouldn’t be different, but watching those reddened lips slide around his skin, listening to the wet sound of his breathing and gasping, watching him drool desperately between them - it’s fucking _revolutionary._

He comes with a groan down Hamilton’s throat, makes him take it despite a grunt of complaint, holds him nice and close until the last pulse races through his cock. With a shudder, he releases Hamilton’s hair and leans back against the wall, catching his breath. 

“I said I liked it when it ended with coming on my face,” Hamilton croaks, wiping the spit from his mouth with the back of his hand. Washington shrugs. Hamilton’s anger runs off him like oil and water. 

“What’re you going to do with that?” He asks instead, eyes flickering down to his assistant’s cock, half-hard. “I could give you a tug.” 

It’s a favor and they both know it, and Hamilton hates favors. Hamilton only prefers favors if they smell like lighter fluid to ignite his wildfire quicker and hotter, and this is not one of them. 

“I know where your hands have been,” He says, and walks into the bathroom. Washington hears the shower turn on. 

“Call yourself a cot when you’re done,” he says into the bathroom, then dumps himself in the bed. Usually he feels like he has to shower after events like these with gentlemen. He doesn’t this time. He feels just well-worn, fucked out. Tired. Hamilton was right, he thinks, with a chuckle. Orgasms are good for jetlag. 

Hamilton comes out of the shower, towels himself off and throws himself into what he’s decided to be his side of the bed. Washington looks up from his phone.

“Call yourself--” 

“Fuck you, George,” he says, irritated, and pulls the covers over himself. 

For a while, Washington watches the back of his head. Then he sets his alarm and closes his eyes. 

  


** 

It was very different than Washington would have imagined to be caught in Hamilton’s whirlwind. Somehow he imagined the man to spend a lot of time being drunk or high or something else damaging, despite his work hours and the incredible quality of the work that he managed. 

It’s only that he notices more, now, that Hamilton is always riddled with bites and bruises, because Hamilton asks him to bite and bruise him. Asks him to hit him. Asks him to paddle him, and brings the paddle. Picks up Washington’s hands and wraps them around his neck, low so the bruises won’t be visible. Gasps and chokes and comes hard. 

Soon he can recognize and remember the bruises on the man’s body. They are his. 

He shouldn’t, of course. It was a one-time thing, only somehow it has become a regular thing. It’s only that it’s so difficult to resist his assistant, who saunters in just the right way, flexing and submissive, wanting to be controlled. Knows his buttons and smashes them relentlessly. Hamilton demands to be attended to, and Washington attends to him. 

_Tame me,_ Hamilton says, and while they’re fucking he certainly feels that way, like he has all the power in the world over this gorgeous body. 

He isn’t sure when it starts to feel different, when somehow it seems that even though he’s got Hamilton’s ankles next to his ears that Hamilton is the one bending him, twisting him. 

He sits up in his bed, rocked by the revelation. 

He realizes he’s not only caught in Hamilton’s whirlwind but his fire. Hamilton not only provides his business - reports and information and emails and recommendations and code - but his pleasure, too. It has come to this, somehow, when he had not wanted it to. 

His life had gotten mixed up, tangling indistinguishably. He growls to himself, because it was not supposed to be like this, and more importantly it was important that it _not_ be like this. He’s too important. There’s too much at stake.

He knows Hamilton is dangerous, and yet he’s fallen into it, for it. He knows Hamilton is ultra-competent and brilliant and damaged, and with the three of those traits, his assistant had lured him into some bear trap and trapped him - crushed him - in it. 

Hamilton drags him into a bathroom of a five-star restaurant, where he had been networking with another CEO over quail eggs. 

“I put a big plug in my ass so I’ll be nice and ready for you to fuck me later,” Hamilton says, as they wash their hands. Washington chokes and splatters water all over himself. 

“Unnecessary,” he growls, looking over at the man in the mirror. 

Hamilton pulls him into executive bathrooms, and the restroom of his charter plane, and a closet of a friend’s office. Hamilton draws his finger across the small of his back, and Washington burns. Hamilton winks at him in public, and men cleared their throats, and start new conversations. 

Washington looks at himself in the mirror and realizes he is mixing business and pleasure. The man who looks back at him, even as sex-satisfied as he is, frowns. 

  


** 

He works Hamilton harder, because if he has to be a man who mixes, he is going to wring every inch of business of the man who targets him for pleasure. He buries him under reports and assignments, company strategy reviews and potential hiree options. He flings Hamilton to St. Petersburg and Sao Paulo on assignment. Hamilton video-calls him from Geneva and forces Washington to watch him fuck down on his fingers and demands Washington tell him when to come. When Hamilton isn’t locking his office door and demanding Washington spank him and bite him, Hamilton is in his office, typing, or running around the building yelling at people to work as hard as he does, which is impossible. No one can work like Hamilton does, because Hamilton was built with no brakes and no steering, like a rocket car. Hamilton has only one mode: fast. 

Washington drives him forward, and forward, and forward. Hamilton pulls him back and back, demands to be taken worse and worse, and harder and harder. Washington smacks him so hard that Hamilton’s stunned, then grins a wild, manic grin, a bit of red on his teeth.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” Hamilton says, a red silhouette of Washington’s hand appearing on his face. “Jesus fuck, you’re an amazing lay. Fucking relentless and terrible and hot. You’re so much better now that I’m here. I really bring out the best in you.”

Washington pushes him down into the bed and fucks him with barely any lube, and Hamilton grits his teeth against what must be pain, and pushes back. He does not let Hamilton know the comment has struck at some very deep part of him. 

Hamilton lays in a fucked-out pile in his bed, marked and filthy, his come drying in white streaks on his stomach. Washington pretends to study the report he has open on his computer, but in fact, he’s thinking about what Hamilton has told him. It’s only after he’s balls-deep inside his assistant and Hamilton’s eyes are squeezed shut from pleasure and pain and sensation and lust that Washington realizes this man telling him _I bring out the best in you_ is not a compliment. Hamilton, because he is maladjusted and extraordinarily good at pretending he lives in a different reality than the one that exists, thinks it is a compliment. It is only a compliment to a man who’s number one talent is self-destruction in the name of improvement. 

“Get out,” he says to Hamilton, who groans. 

Hamilton rolls his eyes, and moves tenderly. “I don’t at least get a shower?” he mumbles, voice hoarse from when Washington had the tie tied tightly around his mouth and his cries were muffled and indistinguishable, and Washington could put whatever words there that he wanted. 

“Shower,” Washington said, “Then get out. And don’t forget --” 

“I know about the board meeting, I’ve already gotten all the numbers down, I just need to make them look good.” 

“Good.” 

Hamilton drags his body off the bed and into Washington’s shower. He blows a kiss before he leaves. 

Washington glances out his penthouse windows and take in the city. He sighs, and pours himself a glass of bourbon, even though it’s 1:30AM and he has to be at work tomorrow at 7 tomorrow. 

He takes out a pad of paper and writes the words _I bring out the best in you_ along the top. He stares at the empty pad of paper for a long time. He thinks about them. 

There is the beginning, where they fuck exclusively in hotel rooms, and he holds Hamilton down. Sometimes spanks him, when he asks to be spanked. Sometimes bites him, when he asks to be bit. Sometimes he makes Hamilton wait until he goes to pieces, makes Hamilton work and holds sex over him like a treat. Sometimes they fuck in Washington’s tax-haven apartments, even though he doesn’t live in them, and they’re austere and barely-decorated. 

There is the middle, where Hamilton seduces him in the office. In his office. In the executive bathroom. Touches his leg in meetings, and lets the top of some hickey peek out of the top of his suit jacket. Provides him a paddle and exposes his bare backside. Provides a belt. Provides a crop. Flexes his back and goads Washington until Washington unleashes on him. Hamilton gasps and cries out and begs for more, and Washington leaves him on his bed, bruised and fucked out. 

Then Hamilton finds his temper. 

It’s hardly that Washington pretends he doesn’t have one, only instead he sublimates it into work - strategy outlines and speeches and plans for the future. Washington is even because he’s learned to repurpose his temper, because he’s learned that no one likes a man who’s angry. Then Hamilton says the wrong thing - Washington doesn’t even remember what it is - and they’re far enough into the game that Washington slaps him harder than he intends. Hamilton’s breathless under him with it for a moment, and then his assistant is laughing. Hamilton spots the weakness immediately, because Hamilton knows how to spot a man’s weakness. Washington uses Hamilton for his ability to spot a man’s weakness, and now Hamilton’s turned on him every bit as vicious. 

Hamilton plays him like a rage-fiddle. Reaches into him, somehow, and twists his chest until he’s seeing red and can’t think straight, furious and overwhelmed by his own anger. Hamilton coils fishing wire in his stomach and pulls on it, drags him along. Hamilton catches him like he’s got a hook in his lip. It’s embarrassing, and he’s addicted and burning. 

There is the end, where they fuck almost every day, almost where ever Hamilton wants. They fuck in his office routinely, sometimes with the door unlocked. Hamilton won’t let him lock it. They fuck in the office bathroom, in alleys behind restaurants, in his apartment where he lives. They fuck in Hamilton’s apartment. 

He stares at the paper, and does not know what to do. He puts the paper in a metal bowl and sets it alight, watches it burn, smells crisp smoke. He doesn’t know what it means.

  


** 

One day Hamilton shows up at his apartment with a narrow birch branch, still outside-fresh, that he puts in Washington’s hand. Hamilton takes off his clothes and stands, back to the wall, obedient. 

“This is too much,” Washington says, holding the lightweight thing in his hand. He had old-fashioned parents. He knows what it feels like. 

“Hit me,” Hamilton says, without looking at him. Hamilton’s back is still red in places from their last session. The hickeys trailing down his shoulders are a perfect match for Washington’s mouth. Hamilton’s thin, and his ribs are only just barely hidden by flesh. His hip bones are prominent. His tattoos are prominent - Puerto Rico on his right bicep, a riding crop along the back of his left thigh, the snake-pieced _Don’t Tread On Me_ along the small of his back. The man’s hair - still too long for professionalism - hangs limply. 

“No,” he says, because he has been hit by one of these. 

“Hit me,” Hamilton snarls, still staring at the wall. His back flexes. 

“Forget it,” Washington says, and he drops the switch. “How about the crop?” 

“Coward,” Hamilton spits at the wall. Washington stares. He knows well that he is being baited, that Hamilton’s first interest and motive is always his utter self-destruction by overwork. He knows that he is a tool for Hamilton’s energy and viciousness. “Even after I spat out your quarterly reports in four hours? And then you took all the credit? And then I helped you get that pretty boy Andre fired? Maybe I’ll fuck him, if you won’t hit me. I bet he’ll hit me. Did you get used of all my bruises being yours? And now you’re throwing me away?” 

Hamilton reaches effortlessly into the wire in his stomach and pulls. Hamilton has drawn a long wick to his temper, and all he needs to do is say the right words. Hamilton says the right words and Washington is burning, and the switch whips through the air and cracks thunderously on Hamilton’s flesh, splitting his skin. Hamilton cries out in pain-joy, gasping. Washington rains down blows on him until Hamilton crumbles, laying against the wall in a fetal position, choking off his own sobs. 

Washington drops the switch and slams his bedroom door shut, panting and breathless and overwhelmed by the force of his own rage. He can say for certain that he is not aroused. 

He stares at the door. He thinks about the man on the other side of it. His executive assistant. _A. Hamilton._ Burning the candle at both ends, like he does, like he has never stopped. A hyena or a falcon or a shark of a man. More teeth and claws than flesh. 

He stares at his hands. He is not a man of incredible moral fiber, perhaps. He donates to charity only out of obligation. He ignores the homeless. He will sacrifice himself willingly to improve the company, and he has, and he will continue to do so. But he is not a man that beats his employee until he can’t stand, and yet Hamilton is very much there.He has become something different than where he was, and where he wanted to be. This is the result, he thinks, of mixing business and pleasure. This is what happens when you fuck your employee. He knew objectively, months ago, that it would happen, and now it has. 

He imagines, in his mind’s eye, him and Laurence running to smother the flames of trees with his jackets. One of them running back for the pail of water. The furious hurry to remove the dry leaves and other nearby branches.

He opens the door. Hamilton is still laying there, panting, half-hard. 

“We’re not fucking anymore,” he announces to the pile of flesh. “Put your clothes on and get out. No more advances. It’s done, and it shouldn’t have started. Call Richards and have him send one of his boys on the first midnight I’ve got available. Take tomorrow off, if you want.”

He closes his bedroom door behind him and listens. Hears the sound of flesh, and rippling fabric, and then the door. When he comes out of the bedroom, he sees the white stain on his wall, mostly dry. 

  


** 

As he is, as he has always been, as Washington likes him - Hamilton is persistent. Hamilton propositions him in bathrooms and bars. Hamilton shows up in his apartment, lays in his bed. Hamilton pursues him with his characteristic relentlessness. Everything his assistant says is true. 

“I know you better than those whores,” Hamilton says, and it’s true that Washington’s gentlemen don’t know the best way to touch him or display themselves. 

“You like seeing my bites, over and over,” Hamilton says, and it’s true that Washington misses taking the clothes off his gentlemen and seeing bruises. 

“I’m just your type,” Hamilton says, and Washington decides that he will train himself out of wanting them lean and young. He prefers them only muscular now, either England-pale or thunderstorm-dark. 

He fails sometimes, because he is only human, and Hamilton is a predator. Sometimes Hamilton catches him at just the right moment, gets him to bite and bruise him, gets him to fuck him rough and relentless. 

Every time he thinks about the flame, and resolves it to be the last time.

One day, Hamilton shows up at his apartment. Even by Hamilton’s standards, his assistant looks bad. He’s paler than usual, a sheen of sweat to his skin, a dazed-out look in his eye. They had arranged the meeting previously, to review some possible stock considerations. When it’s that important, Washington likes to do it at home, where he is completely protected.

Hamilton stares at him, glassy. Hamilton smirks, and reaches under the table and presses a fever-hot hand to him. 

“Stock later?” Hamilton breathes, the hand crawling up his leg, teasing. Washington stares at the report, but the numbers blur, and it’s worse because Hamilton’s thumb is stroking the tender inside of his thigh, and his cock, traitorous as it is, takes interest. “Flesh now. After all, you’ll do better at deciding how best to get you the biggest salary when you’re not distracted.” 

“Because you’re distracting me,” Washington rumbles, and he’s trying to resist, it’s difficult, and Hamilton seems different. Off. 

_Sick?_

“Distracting you?” Hamilton says, in a breathy voice, and squeezes him through his pants, wiping out his thoughts. 

He is seeing Richards’ man tomorrow. He does not need this now, and he does not need to burn. He knows it, and yet his mind is already there, thinking of Hamilton’s thin shoulders and the feel of his hipbones. They haven’t fucked in almost two weeks, which is a record.

Hamilton knows just how to work him up, squeezing softly, rhythmic. 

Once can’t hurt them. 

He can control himself, and his assistant, and this. 

He folds the packet shut and stands, and meanders off to his bedroom, kicking off his suit as he does. Hamilton follows in both respects. 

When Washington lays himself on the bed and looks up, he wonders again why Hamilton seems different. He’s thin and naked, yes, but a little shaky, sweat-slick. Unsettled, uncharacteristically. Hamilton not looking healthy isn’t uncommon and especially not for the past couple of days, but this is a new part of that. 

He thinks about being concerned, only then Hamilton’s mouth is on his cock, hot and delicious. So much better than a prostitute. Hamilton knows him better than any man ever will, he thinks. Hamilton interrogates him with sex, sees through his displays, understands the core of his being. 

Washington knows he shouldn’t and yet he is unable to resist. 

Hamilton pulls away, gasping, a trickle of sweat rolling down his face. He looks more exhausted than usual. Washington thinks about being concerned, only Hamilton is fumbling through their sex drawers, pouring lube onto shaking fingers and slipping one, then two inside him. It’s distracting. 

Washington settles himself against the headboard and fists his cock idly, his mind flicking through stock strategies. He listens to Hamilton’s desperate pants and the sound of skin on skin. 

Hamilton crawls up his body, playing at being weak, the muscles in his biceps straining. It’s a convincing sight, and it works well with how much the man’s skin is boiling. Almost feverish, Washington thinks, and it seems to make sense with how exhausted Hamilton looks, his hair stuck to his forehead, plastered against the back of his neck. Washington thinks about getting a thermometer, only then Hamilton sinks down on him and begins to fuck himself in earnest, gripping the headboard on either side of Washington’s body and rolling his hips, pushing his body up and down, bouncing on Washington’s cock. 

“You haven’t forgotten,” Washington manages, eventually, in between soft groans. Hamilton’s so tight and hot. Always has been. 

“I don’t forget my favorites,” Hamilton replies in a ragged whisper. He’s shaking like a leaf, his intensity overwhelming, sweat pouring down reddened skin. Washington manages half a laugh. He digs his fingers into Hamilton’s flesh, almost too hot to touch. 

“Best way to go,” Hamilton says, and there’s one hovering, terrible second, in which the following events happen: 

First, Washington’s mind flashes with hot confusion, muddled with his pleasure.

Second, Washington’s intuition screams that something catastrophic is about to occur. 

Third, Hamilton’s eyes roll back into his head, and he passes out. 

There is another hovering, terrible second where Washington is frozen, his blood turning to ice at the sight of the unmoving body in his bed. 

Then, there is time. 

“Fuck!” Washington shouts, and he presses his ear to Hamilton’s sweat-slicked, burning chest. There’s a heartbeat. Not fucking dead. Christ, for a second he could only imagine the distraction of sitting in court for days and days trying to explain that it isn’t his fault this idiot killed himself with sex. 

His brain, at least, is instantly cleared of confusion and fog.

The hospital is out. He sweeps up the dead weight of Hamilton’s body into his arms, mind racing. The fever is evident, and how could he have not noticed? He splits his thoughts into two categories, one furiously berating himself, and the other working on next steps. 

_Fever_ , he thinks. 

_Ice water_ , his mind responds. He hurries furiously across the bedroom to the master suite, puts Hamilton’s lolling body into his claw-foot bathtub, turns on only the cold water. He tears through the first-aid items until he finds the thermometer. Thank god, it’s an ear thermometer. 

102.8.

“Fuck,” he says again, and drops the thermometer on the ground. He sits down heavily next to the tub, staring as the water fills around the body. Assuming Hamilton wakes up and isn’t brain damaged - more than usual, at least - Washington feels, with a shred of dry humor, he will have even more ways to force himself to kick his dangerous habit. Gentlemen, after all, do not fuck mid-fever. 

He gets up once, to throw on boxers. He turns off the water when there’s enough, and prays. He can only imagine the waste of time that having to deal with Hamilton dying could cause him. He isn’t really concerned about the charges, if there are any. He knows where he stands in the world and in relationship to laws, and his employees, and the media, and understands public relation relating to top executives. He would need to find a new executive assistant if Hamilton died, and there’s no way they’d be as capable. 

Hamilton groans, and shudders back into consciousness. “Damn,” he mutters, and chokes on nothing. He retches, and for a second Washington has the revolting mental image of the cold bath and floating vomit. Nothing comes out, though. 

Washington stares. Hamilton looks at him and laughs. There is nothing about Hamilton doesn't seem ragged and pathetic, from his sweat-drenched hair, to his ragged goatee, to his bare chest. He’s wretched and desperate. 

“What about this is funny to you?” Washington snarls, because he can’t bother restraining his temper, not right now, with this situation, with this man, who knows him better than he knows himself. “The fact that you’ve got the flu, and yet you still wanted to get fucked, and then you passed out and I thought you were dead? Do you know how much shit I’d have to wade through if I had to deal with that?” 

“You must really want me, if I can seduce you like _this_ ,” Hamilton says, confident and unperturbed despite the evident strain of talking, “Do you think you could get it up in an icebath?” 

Washington stands, recoils against flames that don’t seem to go out. 

“I don’t ---” he starts, and Hamilton stops him with a look. His glazed, sick eyes are unimpressed. 

Washington draws his hand across his face and stomps out of the bathroom. He collects Hamilton’s clothes on the floor, his expensive suit cast off unthinking, his coat laying in a wrinkling pile. His clothes are similarly displayed. He has become a man who doesn’t hang up his jacket, and there’s a hot tendril of disgust in his stomach. 

He steps inside the bathroom again and hangs the clothes on the back of the door. 

“We’re done with this,” he says, to the suit. 

Hamilton snickers. “Sure.” 

“When you feel like you won’t pass out and break your face on the bathtub, get out of here.” 

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton says, and there’s the sound of moving water that suggests a shrug. 

Washington closes the bathroom door behind him and goes back to his office. He locks the office door and brings up his secure work files. He thinks about business, and pleasure. He thinks about the time him and Laurence were a little late to put out one of their fires, and his parents had to call the fire department. There was a scorched little area of their wood, for a while. He remembers there being little greens shoots there, after a while. 

He brings up Hamilton’s employee page and looks at the ID photo. Even the eyes there are intense, with the deep bags and the dark hair and the perfect, confident set to his shoulders. He clicks around a few times. 

_End Contract?  
[ Yes ] [ No ]_


End file.
